#bOYS GNFHJOA GRABS THEM BOTH AND SHAKES THEM VIOLENTLY PLEASE TAT

[balladccr]

Every muscle in his body had tightened, and each breath became more of a chore than the one before. This cycle was endless and frustrating, because Scaramouche knew it had nothing to do with physical ailments. His pride was not so swollen to believe he had fully healed after the battle (vexing weakness still thrummed in his muscles and bones), but he realized, and he hated, that the way his lungs practically collapsed on themselves was nothing but foolishness having no right to be here. Stupid. Idiotic. And so repulsively ironic to be incited by the Harbinger who fit those same descriptors.

Oh, it annoyed him. He annoyed him. But that was where this cycle performed its never-ending loop, because Childe could give him one look, say one word, breathe one breath, and it did these disgusting things to The Balladeer’s chest that only infuriated him… and thereafter made all those twisted knots coil tighter.

Shut up. Shut up. Why couldn’t you have just left well enough alone?

Why can’t I get rid of you? (Or was the question here more accurately “Why won’t I?”)

He felt that dissonance in the air. And it was amusing, in its own way, that it could bother him when their inability to get along was nothing short of natural by now, but no… the flavor of this particular discord was offensive. It wasn’t the same. It wasn’t comfortable, habitual, necessary for two lonely souls who refused to admit they ever needed or wanted anyone else. There was a static that tasted like copper on his tongue, and with every sharp word Childe threw at him, Scaramouche hated the heightening effort it took to swallow.

He should’ve been angry. He should’ve grabbed that fool by his dumb scarf and yanked him to the ground, stomped him into the earth and left him. But he— He couldn’t. Maybe he wanted to—tch, if he only knew what he wanted anymore—or maybe he didn’t. Maybe he didn’t have the energy to waste… Maybe he was just sick of this.

But once Childe was done, The Balladeer found… he still didn’t walk away. Neither of them did.

“Reduced to what, exactly? Am I supposed to think you were waiting like some lost puppy for me to come back to you—is that what you wanted?” And he played the part, now, arms folding like the disappointed owner of a mutt who had been whimpering needlessly at his feet. “No, I don’t see anything pathetic about considering my next course of action. Naturally, that sort of thing wouldn’t even occur to you.”

His next exhale stumbled out disgustingly shakier than he anticipated, but even when a fragile (pathetic) part of himself was desperate to look away, to break that eye contact and give himself a reprieve from the sea of tumultuous emotions—emotions… why?—swirling in Childe’s stare, he dug his heels into the ground, fortified his center. 

“Remember that you and I are nothing alike,” Scaramouche affirmed through clenched teeth. “I don’t need the Fatui to validate my existence. There’s nothing to be gained from either side anymore, and in that case… Maybe it’s about time I went my own way.”

The other's eventual answer was far from kind, yet the insults held none of their usual bite. Every syllable dragged with a weight that such a small frame didn't seem capable of carrying. What should have been scathing words now barely crackled with dying embers; a fire that was nearly extinguished.

Childe should be glad that Scaramouche's arrogance had been cut down to size. He should be reveling in this snotty little pipsqueak finally being put in his place. Once upon a recent time, he would have. And not just reveled—laughed and gloated, rubbed the defeat in his face.

Don't ask him why he didn't now. He didn't know. He didn't know how to admit it.

All he knew was that this was wrong.

Above everything else, that thought stuck like a sword plunged straight through his skull. Even lacking fire, each word Scaramouche spoke bloomed an odd pain at the center of his chest. But he was a child of war; that pain should have excited him as it always did. It shouldn't make him angry—it shouldn't cause this white-hot fury that simmered in Abyss-tainted veins, that clenched the fists of his crossed arms tighter with the urge to plunge his weapon into Dottore's smug face, into the Traveler's kind eyes—to inflict equal pain onto those who were the cause.

The truth was that Childe knew this feeling all too well. It was the same unbridled rage he'd felt towards the scumbag who'd broken Tonia's heart when she was fifteen. Towards the hilichurls who'd dared so much as aim their crossbows at Teucer the last time he'd been home for a visit.

This was why Childe didn't work with the other Harbingers. This was exactly why he refused to rely on anyone's strength but his own. Until the pedestal of the strongest warrior in Teyvat was his—rightfully earned through breaking and reforging himself as many times as it took—being defeated in strength was inevitable. But...this? The defeat of fight? Of spirit? Of who a person was, all because of the failure of someone else's strength?

You're better than this. Didn't you used to know that?

For a fleeting moment Scaramouche seemed to regain a flicker of that fire, but it was wielded only as a feeble attempt to order him away. Childe barked out a laugh. "Yeah, I can see that." Even the shorter boy's glare lacked the ardor he'd come to know. His own voice more than made up for the sharpness the other's lacked. "Man, so all it takes is one defeat to reduce you to this, huh? You know, you're a lot of things, princess, but I have to say: I never thought you were pathetic."

The emptiness of his eyes laid bare the storm within; all the anger, the disappointment, the ache. "Fighting you now would be a waste of time. You can barely look me in the eye; you wouldn't be worth the effort of conjuring my blades like this." Childe shook his head. "It's no wonder you didn't bother coming back. I do know just as well what the Fatui is like; and right now, it'd eat you alive."